


i think the universe is on my side

by lorynsays



Series: it's always you - au chronicles [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hunger Games AU, Lord Of The Rings AU, Star Wars AU, Supernatural AU - Freeform, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorynsays/pseuds/lorynsays
Summary: Whatever universe, timeline, or reality—it's always you. (Or 5 AU's that nobody asked for and got anyway.)





	i think the universe is on my side

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. My. Hell. You don’t know how long this sucker has been sitting on my computer. The earliest version I have was from 2015. Three years of work for less than 10k words. The writer’s life, right?

I. SUPERNATURAL

_Carry On My Wayward One_

 

It’s the same argument she and Ollie have been having at every Mom and Pop’s diner across the last eight states. By the time they get to Kansas, Thea Queen is beyond done. She reached done somewhere between Ohio and Tennessee, and it’s about time her brother finally realizes that.

Thea puts up her hand to forestall any argument from the knucklehead sitting across the booth from her. She takes a deep breath. And then another. And then one more, because it has been a _long_ trek across eight states and did Thea mention she is _so done_?

No, Zen. She is fucking _Zen_.

She is not going to blow her top. She is not going to yell or scream or storm or do anything that might get her and her idiot brother kicked out of yet another diner. At least, not before she finishes her food. Thea has been craving waffles ever since she and Ollie crossed the Kansas state line four hours ago. After ganking that particularly nasty spirit that had taken up residence in an abandoned junkyard, she deserves this, dammit.

So, like she said. Zen.

“Listen Ollie,” Thea says, leaping into the fray when her brother pauses at her upheld hand. She speaks slowly and articulately so there can be no mistake. “I already told you that I’m not going anywhere without you. So, shut up. Now. Okay?”

She turns back to her whipped cream and strawberry waffles, ignoring the hard glare of the man sitting across the table. She wrestles off a chunk of waffle with her fork and plops it in her mouth. A dollop of cream gets left behind at the corner of her lips and she pulls it into her mouth with a swipe of her thumb.

The man sitting across from her folds his arms and glares. He cuts an intimidating figure in his gray Henley, brown leather jacket, and dark wash jeans. He has the kind of features that are good-looking in a brutal, masculine way. His sharp jawline, heavy brows, and cold eyes are at odds with the soft fall of long lashes on his cheeks. He doesn’t look like an Ollie.

Thea stuffs another waffle square in her mouth, ignoring him. On her plate, her waffle is cut precisely along the ridges, maintaining perfect squares swimming with cream and syrup. She looks younger sitting in front of a half-eaten plate of waffles than her long legs and cold eyes might suggest.

The man’s eyes soften as he watches her. For a moment, he looks as if he might have once been an Ollie in another life. But the look is gone as fast as it appears.

“Thea,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur. “You need to listen to me.”

Thea scoffs. “Oh, you mean like how you listen to me?” she asks, her voice brittle.

Ollie scowls and a muscle in his jaw starts twitching. Thea can tell that he is winding himself up for a fight. He’s been spoiling for a big one ever since that poltergeist in Oklahoma City threw her through the drywall in that model home.

Thea gets it. Ever since he came back from being dead for five years, it’s been one hit after another. Everything about the world Ollie knew has changed, including his little sister.

But today Thea is tired.  

Her wrist is throbbing, and she has a headache creeping over the right side of her head from the OKC incident. The waitress, the cute blonde one who keeps throwing their table concerned looks every couple of minutes, is really nice. Thea doesn’t want to make a scene and ruin the nice waitress’s day. Thea doesn’t want to fight. She just wants _to—eat—her—goddamned—waffles_. So yeah, this isn’t happening.

“Ollie,” Thea says, cutting across her brother before he can resume his tirade. “I’m not having this conversation with you tonight.”

God, she sounds like her mother when she says that. Ollie’s answering frown is sharp, like he recognizes their mother in Thea’s words too.

When Ollie frowns, it’s like his whole body gets into the expression. His shoulders tense and his forehead wrinkles and Thea can see a shadow of the pouting little boy he used to be. It makes her heart hurt for reasons she doesn’t have time to list out or explore, so she pushes it away.

“It’s important to get an education, Thea,” Ollie says and, God, is he like a demon with a soul on the line or what?

 “I am getting an education,” Thea says, her tone deceptively light. “For example, did you know that Turner Falls is the oldest state park in the U.S.? Really changes the way you think about that werewolf we hunted through there, huh?”

Ollie is not amused. “Thea,” he growls.

“Don’t you ‘ _Thea’_ me,” she snaps, putting her fork and knife down with a sharp clink. “Or did you imagine that the last five years of my life have been spent at some fancy boarding school? There’s no college that would take me with my transcripts. And you’re kidding yourself if you think either of us can afford to stay in one place for too long.”

There is a mug of untouched coffee in front of Ollie. Thea can’t remember the last time he ate. She knows things are different for him now. The five years that they spent apart were hell for her and she doesn’t want to think about what they might have been like for him. But still, she wishes he would eat something.

And she wishes he would just let this go.

Ollie tenses, his hands curling into fists on the Formica tabletop. His knuckles turn white, crisscrossed with scars that are thrown into sharp relief.

“If this is about money—” he starts.

Thea cuts him off, her tone sharp. “You know it isn’t,” she says, and it comes out more like a snarl.

Her brother backs off immediately. The unclaimed Queen wealth and all the baggage that comes with it, isn’t worth a huge blow out. At least not tonight, when there are other things to be won.

Ollie tries a different tactic. “I just want what’s best for you,” he snaps, but he sounds a little too angry to be sincere.

That is to say, Thea knows he’s sincere about wanting the best for her, but that’s not why he’s saying it right now. Right now, he’s trying to use his “wanting the best for her” to manipulate her into doing what he wants. And what he wants is for her to go to school just like all the other twenty-something year-olds. He wants her to have a normal life, to do normal things. But he’s out of his mind.

Thea Queen does not, cannot, and will not ever have a normal life. Maybe in some other universe somewhere, but not here and not now. Normal little girls don’t cross the country with their newly resurrected brother, facing the worst that hell can throw at them. Normal little girls go to college. And Thea is not normal. Thus, Thea is not going to college.

“See, big brother?” she wants to say. “Who needs a fancy college degree?”

Instead, she says, “What’s best for me is being with you.” She fixes Ollie with a searing glare. “I’m safer with you and you know it.”

Ollie’s fists tighten. The coffee mug in his hand creaks ominously.

“I’m not safe, Thea,” Ollie murmurs, and there’s a haunted tremor to his voice that makes Thea’s heart sink. “You’ll only be in more danger the more you stay with me. It’s for the best.”

His words sound and taste like goodbye. They make the sweet cream and strawberries taste ashy on Thea’s tongue. Ollie can be a bastard and has won the Worst Brother of the Year Award for the last five years alone, but he can’t honestly be saying what she thinks he’s saying.

“You’re leaving me?” she demands. “So that’s it? We’re just done?”

There’s a whooshing in Thea’s ears, so loud that she can’t hear anything else, let alone Ollie’s reply. She sees it again, that night where everything went so wrong. The flames licking the walls, the smoke clinging to her clothes and the inside of her nose. Glass shattering from the heat, blowing outward like cannon balls; Mom, screaming, crying; Ollie’s eyes flashing from blue to a dark, soulless black—but he promised, Ollie promised that he wouldn’t leave, not after Mom, Dad, and Tommy— _Oh, God, Tommy—_

“Thea!”

Ollie’s voice is so loud that the other patrons in the diner jump. But it brings Thea back.

“Thea,” Ollie says. He reaches out to her, almost as if he is going to touch her hand, but then he pulls back.

Thea feels bitter. Past Ollie would have slid around to her side of the booth and pulled her into a hug, rocking her and shushing her until she resurfaced. This Ollie does his best not to touch her, not to touch anyone, and so Thea finds other ways to cope.

“Let’s just drop it for tonight, okay Ollie?” Thea says, turning back to her half-cold waffle.

“Thea, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Ollie, I said drop it—”

“More coffee?”

The cheerful voice of their blonde waitress catches them both off-guard. Thea’s hand jumps to her hip where the demon blade rests, tucked out of sight. Ollie’s eyes flash from blue to black so quickly that it almost looks like a trick of the light.

Thea shoots Ollie a warning look before offering their waitress a cheerful smile.

In keeping with the cheesy theme of the diner, their waitress is dressed in a baby pink dress with a neat, white apron over the top. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and she has a pair of rectangular glasses perched on her nose. As Thea watches, the girl adjusts her glasses using the hand that isn’t holding the coffee karafe.

Ollie had turned to look at the waitress at the same time that Thea did, but he seems to be having quite a different reaction to her. Thea watches him take in their waitress’s blonde hair, sensible Keds, and glasses. For all that Ollie insists that he isn’t human anymore, he seems to be having a very human reaction to their very cute waitress. He chokes, trying to clear his throat, while also trying to covertly adjust his pants by spreading his legs and sitting up straighter. Is that a blush?

Thea smirks. Maybe this night won’t be such a bust after all.

The silence between the three drags on. The waitress bites her lip, her teeth a flash of white against her brilliant fuchsia lipstick.

“Is that a no to coffee?” she asks.

Thea can’t help but grin. Ollie looks so perturbed, so off his game, that it is all Thea can do to restrain a giggle.

Ollie finds his words and he pulls back into what Thea has affectionately termed his douche-persona. “We’re kind of busy here—” he says, eyes flicking to her name tag (which Thea realizes, with another grin, is upside down). “—um, Emily, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Felicity,” the waitress corrects him.

Ollie blinks and Thea lets slip a grin. Felicity, huh? It’s been a long time since she and Ollie have had any kind of joy or felicity in their lives. Thea likes her immediately.

So, of course, Ollie has to go and ruin it.

“What?” he snaps, impatient.

“Fe-li-city,” the waitress repeats, drawing the vowels of her name out slowly. “My name is Felicity. I had to borrow my coworker’s badge because I can’t find mine. Just don’t tell my boss.”

Ollie’s brow creases, but he’s released his vice grip on his coffee mug. His thumb rubs back and forth at his index finger, almost nervous.

“Well, _Fe-li-city_ ,” Ollie says, mimicking the drawn-out way she’d pronounced her name. “We’re a little busy here, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“Right, sorry,” Felicity says, and then she winces as if steeling herself. “It’s just that things were getting really loud and awkward and our regulars were getting a little fussy—you know how old people are—and so I came over here to break up the little _tête-à-tête._ You guys are totally allowed to talk, but if you could just do it in a . . . softer voice . . . I know this isn’t a library or anything but, still, there are people who want to have their own conversations you know? And—”

Felicity stops abruptly. Thea watches with an almost morbid interest at the way the blonde woman closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, her lips soundlessly counting down _three—two—one—_

“So. No coffee?” Felicity asks.

Thea smiles. Felicity smiles back, cheeks burning red. Thea _really_ likes her. Ollie does too, judging by the way he frowns and squares his shoulders. The sharp lines of his face had almost been kind when he looked at the waitress, at Felicity.

“Look, Felicity,” Oliver starts—and two things happen very quickly.

The bell above the diner’s front door chimes. A blade rasps against its sheath as its drawn, too fast for human ears.

Across the diner, someone screams, but their shout is cut off mid breath, replaced with a gurgling, choking noise. It’s the sound of someone choking on their own blood, a sound that Thea is only too familiar with. Her blood freezes and her hand goes to her demon blade.

Ollie stands, faster than any human, and pushes the blonde waitress behind him. He looks over his shoulder to Thea, who tries not to shudder at his black, demon eyes.

“Oh my god,” Felicity stammers, backing away, clutching the coffee karafe tightly to her chest. “Oh my god, what are you?”

There isn’t time to answer as everything, quite literally, goes to hell.

 

* * *

 

II. HUNGER GAMES

_Welcome to the 75th annual Hunger Games . . ._

 

Felicity sees the hood before she sees the bow. But it doesn’t matter which she sees first, not really, because she _feels_ it before she actually sees it. She knows. She’s dead.

There, beneath the dappled shadows of the trees, crouches Oliver Queen. The Capitol’s Champion—and he has an arrow pointed directly at her heart.

He is the first champion ever in the seventy-five-year history of the games to come from the Capitol. A peace offering of sorts to the Districts, meant to quell the murmurs of revolution that have been festering steadily for years. _See? We know what it feels like to put the lives of our children on the line for the sake of peace. We are just like you._

He is a death sentence for the other champions, except maybe for the Careers from Districts 1 and 2. How could any champion from the poorer, outlying Districts ever hope to compete with the Queen fortune? Or their connections and resources?

Three tributes, champions from Districts 7, 9, and 10 had decided that they couldn’t. With three seconds left in the countdown to the opening of the games, each had stepped off their platform and were blown to high heaven.

The champion from District 10, a small bony boy who hadn’t stopped trembling in all the time Felicity had seen him since arriving in the Capital, had been standing on the platform directly to her left. The boom of the bomb had scared her so bad that she’d toppled off her platform. For a moment, she’d been sure that she’d be blown up too. But the countdown had reached zero just as Felicity fell and she lay, stunned on the ground, as the remaining twenty-one champions leapt into action.

Felicity thought, _Thank god he didn’t take me with him._ Then the screaming started and all that was left was, _Oh god._

Oliver Queen had saved her then, though he probably didn’t realize it. By the time Felicity had shaken herself and come back to the present, he’d already taken down three of the four remaining tributes who’d posed the most immediate threat to her. Two were downed with arrows, one with the brutal twist of Oliver Queen’s hands around the neck.

How did he get a bow so fast?

Felicity didn’t ponder it for longer than the span of a heartbeat. Oliver Queen’s quick action had left an opening in the fray, had cleared a path for her to escape. To her right was another felled champion, this one with carrot-orange hair and a dark gash of molten red spilling from her neck. Felicity forced herself not to gag. The champion’s fingers were still tightly clasped around the strap of one of the survival packs and Felicity needed supplies if she was going to survive.

“I’m so sorry,” Felicity told the crumpled body. She wasn’t sure what she was exactly sorry for, but it was awful to tug the pack from the girl’s hand. It was wrong, somehow, even though the girl was dead and wouldn’t need it any longer.

That memory of three mornings ago, when Felicity toppled off her platform and into this sick nightmare, is visceral and horrible. She’s survived for three miserable days by hiding, by finding blind spots in the arena’s coverage, and staying small. There had been enough water in the backpack for her to survive two days. She’d made it last three because she knew, once she moved from her hiding place, she was dead.

So here she is, in Oliver Queen’s sightlines, and Felicity knows from the media coverage that he does not miss.

She’d watched the media coverage leading up to the games, even though Dig had told her not to, that it’d only make things worse. But she couldn’t help it. And the Capital had been fawning over their champion, so much so that there was hardly a moment when Oliver Queen’s face wasn’t on screen.

The archer had received the unheard score of a 12, a score that was so far above the modest 5 that Felicity had managed to pull down by the skin of her teeth. She probably should have stepped off the platform at the beginning and saved herself the trouble, the trauma of being in the arena. (But she didn’t. Because she’d promised her mom, she’d promised Roy, that she’d _try_ ; that she’d fight. She’d _try_.)

Felicity stares at the archer and his arrow, aimed at her heart. Her thoughts race. She thinks about those numbers—Oliver Queen got a 12 and she’s from District 6, but she’d only barely got a 5. God, she’s not even worth _half_ an Oliver Queen. She wishes her name hadn’t been called, that she hadn’t been reaped, and that the world was different. She closes her eyes.

The world fades away to darkness, the sound of the rushing river and the birds in the trees drowning in the frantic _thump-thump-thump_ of her heartbeat pounding in her chest and in her ears. She breathes once—twice—and imagines that she can see his eyes from where she stands.

He’s crouched there, tucked right against the tree line that borders the rocky riverbank. He’s nearly invisible, green hood masking him from sight, hiding his captivating blue eyes. All the other champions had been so afraid of Oliver Queen, even the Careers who spent their whole lives training for this. Felicity thinks it has to do with his sharp jaw and his rapt, predatory gaze. It’s a gaze that fixes on its target and doesn't let go, doesn't lose track of his prey.

But he’d been kind to her. During training, he’d showed her how to tie that stupid sailor’s knot; he’d pointed out that the berries she’d listed as “safe” on her list of flora and fauna were actually poisonous. He’d been so much more than the media darling she’d expected, than the brutal killing machine he’d been advertised as.

He’d been human.

Felicity prays that now he’ll be humane and make it quick, that he won’t leave her to listen to the wet _thud-thud_ of her panicked heart as life seeps out of her. She prays that her mother is watching the footage at their house on their tiny television instead of out in the town square where all of creation and the peace keepers could hear her curse the Capitol for murdering her baby. Felicity prays that Roy will move in to her room to be there for her mother.

And isn’t it strange that it’s not the thought of her mother or her all-but-blood brother that finally brings the tears? No, it’s not for either of them that the tears finally fall, but for her room back in District 6. Its cheerful, yellow walls and cluttered shelves and crocheted blanket, the corners of which aren’t quite square because her mother is terrible at crocheting.

Felicity can’t help it. When the arrow flies through the air with a barely discernable _fwip!_ she gasps and opens her eyes.

The world explodes into color around her. The blue of the sky against the verdant green of the trees. The golden sunshine filtering through their leaves. The hooded figure invisible in their shade. The sound of the roaring river and the twittering birds wink back into existence. Behind her, there’s a gurgle, a gurgle that only two days ago she wouldn’t have recognized. But now, now Felicity is intimately familiar with that sound.

It’s the sound of someone choking on their own blood.

Oliver Queen’s arrow, it seems, was not meant for her. Her chest aches anyway, her heart threatens to stop.

Felicity whips around. Behind her, stands the cold-eyed champion from District 2—the one who had terrorized her in the hall outside the training room, who had put his hands on her and breathed such terrible things in her ear, the one who had mouthed off to Oliver Queen, bragged that he was going to kill the Capitol’s Champion. In the space of a heartbeat, the champion falls to his knees.

There is an arrow in his chest, pierced right through his breast and into his heart. Next to him on the ground lays a knife, one that only seconds before he held over Felicity's head, now lying harmlessly on the muddy riverbank.

The District 2 champion lies there, prone in the shallow water, a marionette with his strings cut. A body where a person used to be. A scarlet cloud of blood blooms around him in the river's shallow water, moving with an eerie grace like a shadow. The scarlet cloud creeps out toward the rest of the shore, drawing closer to where Felicity stands ankle deep in the water.

She scrambles back, head pounding and stomach clenching. There’s not enough in her to throw up, Felicity tries to remind herself. She’d only hack up bile and blood, blood like the scarlet cloud spreading over the muddy shore.

In the distance, a cannon booms. Another champion has fallen.

Felicity closes her eyes, but the image of the broken body on the river’s edge doesn’t disappear.

Behind her, something moves. There is a sudden presence at her back, a shadow that, when Felicity opens her eyes, swallows her own.

"Stay away from the open," a voice growls, behind her. The voice is barely audible above the rush of water and the manic pounding of Felicity's heart.

She sways back and finds that her archer, her savior, has moved out of the safety of the trees. He's barely a breath away. Felicity can feel his breath dancing on the back of her neck, a warm rush of air in sharp contrast to the chilling wind that sweeps down the river. It is the closest she has been to another human being in three days. The rest of them, the other champions—they’re not human to her anymore, not after what she saw them do at the cornucopia.

But somehow, _he_ is human, even with the blood on his hands.

Felicity takes a quivering breath. The archer remains motionless behind her, his breath stirring the wispy, baby hairs on the back of her neck. She leans back and can feel him, his chest pressed against her back.

His hand brushes hers and she gasps. His hand isn’t any warmer than it should be, but where his callused fingers brush hers, she burns. He holds her hand and, for a perfect moment, Felicity feels her heart pound for an entirely different reason.

"Why?" she whispers. She hopes that her voice is soft enough that the cameras can't catch her words, that the roar of the nearby river and the whooshing of the wind drowns them out.

His fingers curl hers around the leather hilt of the fallen champion’s knife. The moment shatters.

His answer stirs her hair, his breath hot on her neck. She feels the word more than she hears it. He presses the syllables like a kiss to the hollow beneath her ear.

"Survive."

And then he’s gone.

Felicity gasps out a sob, her breath rattling harshly in her chest. It is just her now standing on the riverbank. Her and the dead champion, limbs floating lazily in the shallow water, giving eerie, life-like animation to the corpse. She grips the hilt of the knife with shaking hands.

His word is a tattoo, a brand against her neck.

_Survive._

 

* * *

 

III. STAR WARS

_A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . ._

 

The wires beneath the console spark and Captain Felicity flinches back. Her head connects with the underside of the console with a loud _crack!_ Felicity isn’t sure if the wires are still sparking or if she’s seeing stars. She swears, loudly and colorfully, in as many languages she knows. Behind her, her copilot laughs.

“You okay down there, Blondie?” Roy asks. “Or do you need some help?”

Felicity’s reply is blistering and in Huttese. It doesn’t even matter that Roy doesn’t speak the language; the words need no translation.

“Look Blondie,” Roy says, “I keep telling you it’s the power couplings and if you’d just listen for one minute—”

Felicity slides out from under the console, spanner clenched between her teeth and grease on her face.

“Mr. Harper,” she says, her words garbled as she speaks around the spanner. She plucks it from between her teeth and brandishes it at her copilot, surprisingly intimidating despite the fact that she is still on her back and has grease smudged across the bridge of her nose. “Remind me _whose_ ship this is?”

Roy scowls. “Yours, but—”

“Then I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions about _my_ ship to yourself,” she snaps. She shuffles awkwardly on her back, crablike, and swings out from under the console, finding her feet. “ _Okey-okey?”_

 “ _Okey-okey,”_ he repeats, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

“Wonderful,” the blonde captain says, wiping her hands on her pants. “Now, if you’d be so kind to inform our passenger that we are ready for departure, we can get this show on the road.”

Roy’s scowl only deepens, but he nods and turns to leave the cockpit. He palms the door sensor and it opens with a hiss. He mumbles, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The door shuts before Felicity can respond and she sits down heavily in the captain’s seat.

“Why did he have to say that?” she asks out loud, scowling as she enters the coordinates for the Starling System, jabbing the buttons perhaps with more force than necessary. “Why does he _always_ have to say that?”

The answer becomes clear three minutes later when an entire squad of Imperial Storm Troopers opens fire on her ship. Felicity barks at Roy over the comms to get his ass to the turret guns because, really, this is all his fault. He’s the one who tempted fate with that stupid line.

The _Arrow_ rockets out of the two-bit, outer rim planet and right into a blockade of no less than three star destroyers. _Three—kriffing—star destroyers._ Felicity is about one tie fighter short of a squadron, apoplectic, and did she mention that _she did not sign up for this_?

“This passenger we picked up is hotter than I thought,” Felicity snaps to Roy over her comm. “We need to find out if he can shoot worth a damn or if he’s just a pretty face.”

An even voice answers her over the comms. “I’m in place turret two. The canon is charged and ready to engage.”

Felicity flushes. She didn’t expect the handsome stranger to have plugged into the comms. But there isn’t time to be self-conscious because they’re about to be blown to bits by a tie squadron.

“Incoming enemy tie fighters,” Felicity says. “0.277 degrees. Hold on, boys.”

She banks hard, slicing across the approaching squadron. The _Arrow_ ’s deflector shields clip the outermost tie fighter, sending it spinning into another fighter. The two ships explode on impact in a shower of sparks, causing a chain reaction that takes out at least five more of the squadron. The remainder of the squad scatters.

The _Arrow’s_ claxons clang angrily. Tie fighters are light and have notoriously terrible shielding, which makes them bounce off the _Arrow_ ’s deflector shields, but that trick will only work once. Felicity doesn’t dare risk the deflector shields further, not with three Star Destroyers looming in the distance, coming into range.

“Nice, Blondie,” Roy says over the comms. Two tie fighters disappear from the _Arrow_ ’s sensors, courtesy of the turret guns manned by her copilot and the handsome stranger.

“ _E chu ta_ ,” Felicity snarls. “Stop talking and do your kriffing job!”

A barrage of bolts glance off the deflector shields. The ship shakes with the impact. The ship’s claxons clang in time with the beeping red light on the main console.

“We can’t take many more concentrated hits like that,” Felicity says, diving down beneath the second squad of tie fighters headed their way. “Roy, you better be asking your deity for absolution because if we don’t get blown to smithereens, I’m going to kill you.”

“Me?” Roy objects, another tie fighter disappearing in a shower of sparks. “What did I do?”

“You and your bad feelings!” Felicity yells back, pulling hard on the throttle.

The _Arrow_ is a YT-2270 Corellian freighter, an update from the YT-1380 that Felicity learned to fly at age six. She is easily the best pilot in the galaxy, especially behind the controls of Corellian-built tech, but even her skill and her personal modifications to the ship can’t stand up to an Imperial star destroyer, let alone three.

The _Arrow_ ’s shields are a step up from the standard deflector shields on a Corellian freighter and lightyears beyond the very minimal shielding on the tie fighters. But the _Arrow_ ’s speed, while faster than any ship of its size, can’t compete with the much faster, spryer ties in open space. Tie fighters are made for hairpin turns and tight maneuvers. What they lose in shielding they more than make up for in sheer numbers. And with the star destroyers coming in, there’s no hope for a quick jump to lightspeed without sending them hull-first into a Destroyer.

_Holy kriff,_ Felicity thinks, her heart pounding in her ears louder than the _Arrow’_ s ongoing claxons. _This might really be the end._

“Do you have the calculations ready for the jump to lightspeed?” the stranger says over the comms. His steady voice brings Felicity’s mind back from the brink of panic.

The _Arrow_ shakes. Shields at 32%.

Three tie fighters sail past the cockpit window, one exploding under fire from the top turret.

“Sort of,” Felicity says. She pulls on the controls and the _Arrow_ banks right.

The Destroyers are closer, almost within firing range. The _Arrow_ can’t take a hit from something as powerful as a Destroyer.

Roy swears. “What do you mean _sort of?_ ”

 “I mean that the Imperial send-off on Serenno fried the Navi computer before it could finish calculating the coordinates,” Felicity snaps. “I have the coordinate range and I have the estimate within the range that I did manually, but—”

Shields at 27%.

“But what?” Roy snaps. “Blondie! We’re going to _die!_ ”

“My calculation isn’t verified,” Felicity shouts back. Another tie fighter screams past. A second explodes into sparks and Felicity flips the _Arrow_ on its side to avoid the debris. “If the calculation wrong by even a millionth of a degree we could speed through the middle of a star or straight into a black hole and then we’d still be dead!”

“Blondie!” Roy growls.

Shields at 15%.

“Roy!” Felicity snaps back. “I’m a pilot, dammit, not a goddamned Jedi!”

“Input the coordinates,” the stranger interrupts. His voice is calm, almost serene. Felicity appreciates that, but also kind of hates him.

“They’re in, but if we make the jump we’re going to go straight through that Destroyer,” Felicity says, and she can’t help it if her tone is bordering on hysterical.

Shields at 12%.

“Fly at the Destroyer head on,” the stranger commands. “On my mark, pull left and make the jump to lightspeed. We’re going to thread the needle.”

Oh, he’s got to be shitting her.

It’s an insane plan. What he’s proposing—flipping the _Arrow_ on its side and squeezing through the narrow space between two of the Star Destroyer’s deflector shields and simultaneously jumping to hyperspace—is kriffing insane.

The _Arrow_ is probably narrow enough when flipped on its side to squeeze through the gap in the deflector shields, but if the ship even so much as brushes either Destroyer's shields, it’s game over. The force would send them pinging back and forth between the two Destroyer’s shields like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond.

“You’re crazy!” Roy shouts.

Felicity heartily agrees.

“Trust me,” the stranger says. And gods help her, she does.

She’s not sure why, but she does. She’s never believed in the force, never truly believed in any higher beings directing her life, but she trusts this man. This stranger with the icy blue eyes and the ancient Jedi weapon at his side.

“On my mark,” he says, and Felicity imagines she can see his blue eyes flashing, narrowed in concentration.

Felicity tenses. Roy, in an unprecedented moment of self-awareness, shuts up.

The sound of the claxons and the beat of Felicity’s heart quiets until there is only a vacuum of silence. Her entire existence hangs on this stranger’s word.

“ _Now!_ ”

Felicity flips the _Arrow_ and punches it. Around her, space streaks by in a flash of light.

Her last thought is that this handsome stranger, this man who introduced himself as just-Oliver, had better be a godsdamned Jedi. And if she lives through this, she’s going to bang him on every surface of her ship.

  

* * *

 

 

IV. MARVEL

_The Man in the Iceberg_

 

He wakes up in a tiny room with blank walls, scratchy sheets, and a ballgame playing softly on the radio in the background.

He comes to consciousness all at once, his eyes snapping open and heart pounding as if a bolt of lightning has gone through his system. His breathing remains steady, no other physical tells giving him away. He often woke this way, even before the war, when he and Tommy had to huddle together for warmth because the heater in their tiny one-bedroom apartment had gone out again. It is a combination of instinct, the need to gauge his surroundings, and the desire not to disturb his fellow bed- or bunkmates.

But something is different this time when Oliver Queen opens his eyes. Something is . . . wrong.

"And it's Bettison to Hartley—it's gonna be a close one, folks! Meyers rounds the base to home and he's—safe!" The tinny voice on the radio shouts. The static of the station and the cheers of the stadium crowd blend together into an indistinct buzz in the background.

Wrong.

Oliver sits up and takes in his surroundings. There is a wireless radio resting on a plain wood table, both framed by a window trimmed with white curtains. Pale morning light filters through the cloudy window panes that obscure the outside world. The hum of traffic and car horns seep through the frame. Starling City traffic. He'd recognize the sound anywhere. But it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, _wrong,_ _wrong, wrong_ —

There are soft footsteps on tiled floor, the _tap-tap-tap_ of high-heeled shoes, interrupting his train of thought.

The door opens. An attractive woman in a smart white shirt, pencil skirt, and nude stockings smiles at him, her dark hair framing an innocent, round face. The badge clipped to the front pocket of her shirt identifies her as Agent Dinah Drake of the CIA. Her smile is welcoming, the kind a hostess greeting you at a restaurant would wear as she said, "Right this way sir, your table is right here."

(Dinner. _Dinner_. There was something about dinner.)

Agent Drake moves with the easy grace of a dancer—or a fighter. There's something wrong about the affected set of Agent Drake's shoulders and her watchful eyes are too casual, too calculated. Agent Drake is a coiled spring, tension in her shoulders coiled down to her clenched fists. She is a bowstring ready to snap into action in a moment's notice.

( _Dancing_. Was he supposed to go dancing?)

"Hello Captain Queen," Agent Drake says, her tone low and solicitous. There's an air of seduction there, the raspy voice of a blues singer at a club, but that too feels fake. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Agent Drake flicks her curled hair over her shoulder, the first genuine motion she's made since entering the room. She’s nervous, unsettled.

The sudden movement distracts Oliver, bringing him back from the edge of contemplating dinner and dancing and jazz singers. The horns and trumpets in the back of his mind are hazy, like a melody just about to be remembered, right on the tip of his tongue—

Tongue. Tongue. It’s there on the tip of his tongue.

Ruby lips sucking on his tongue, biting his lower lip, pressing against his. Perfume, musky and sweet, barely discernable above the smell of jet fuel and exhaust.

_"Save me that dance, Captain. The club on the corner. I'll be waiting."_

He clamps down on the memory, hard. He remembers, oh God he remembers, but he can’t think about it now, not while he’s in danger— (But how can he not think about it now, when he can still feel the ghost of those lips against his? When he can still taste her on his tongue?)

Outside, the sound of the Starling traffic pauses . . . then loops back around and starts again.

"Are you Hydra?” Oliver asks. His voice is soft and almost indiscernible from the sound of car horns and traffic wafting up from outside the window _._

Agent Drake's spine stiffens. Her fists clench. Oliver can see her shift her center of gravity to her back foot, a casual shift that hides the fighting stance she's ready to crouch into. Agent Drake is definitely a trained fighter, which is unusual for a woman, but Oliver has enough experience in this war to know not to discount someone purely based on their gender. Agent Laurel Lance was the greatest example of that.

Agent Drake is almost as tall as him when Oliver is sitting, so he towers over her when he stands up from the bed. The casual move belies the danger and strength in his limbs. He rubs his finger against his thumb, aching for a weapon or his shield or even a bow.

_Laurel_.

The name breaks through his defenses, rocking him back on his heels, and he remembers. The curve of her cheek, the brush of her hair, the press of her lips, and—

"Captain?" Agent Drake asks. Her tone doesn't betray any of the tension in her body, but it doesn't sound like the concerned voice of a friendly agent who is there to check on him either. "It’s all right. You're in safe hands here with the CIA—"

He cuts her off.  "That game playing on the wireless? I was at that game. The Starlings win, 8 to 3."

Agent Drake pales, her cheeks white against the hue of her lipstick. The color is too garish, too orange. Laurel's was a deeper red, more burgundy or whine than red. Agent Drake's lip color hasn't smudged, even with her chewing on it, and somehow that's not right either.

"Captain Queen," Agent Drake says again.

Her voice doesn’t tremble, but Oliver can tell she's nervous. She's tense, trying not to show it, trying to wrest back control of the situation without appearing to do so, but she's too stiff. Her stance is too aggressive. The silhouette of her clothes doesn’t sit right on her dancer’s frame.

"Please stay calm," Agent Drake says. "You're not in any danger."  

As she speaks, she puts out her hands in a calming sort of gesture. But hands can easily be balled into fists and turned into weapons.

"Your traffic sound is on a loop," he says, his voice low. "It's almost imperceptible but if you wait . . . "

He trails off and the room is silent except for the wireless static and the sound of traffic and then— _there!_ Just for a moment, there's an unnatural break, a heartbeat of time where everything is too quiet, where there are no honking cars or roaring engines. There's nothing. Just the wireless humming along to a commercial’s jingle.

And then the sound of traffic starts up again.

"Hear it?" Oliver asks, and he almost sounds casual, like she's some dame he met in the bar and they're just striking up a conversation. "But any real city slicker could tell you that city traffic doesn't sound that soft in a room with glass that thin."

He gestures to the window to his right. He locks eyes with Agent Drake and, he can tell, she doesn’t dare look away. Her hands are trembling.

He continues, "Those stockings would be worth their weight in gold. No dame anywhere can get a pair. Not even royalty, if rumors are true."

He takes a sudden step forward, the hard lines of his body threatening. Agent Drake falls back into a defensive stance, graceful hands clenched into fists. She's small, but Oliver doesn't doubt she can definitely do some damage. Definitely not just a pencil pusher, then.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Agent Drake," he says. Oliver's voice is no longer pleasant. It's dark, gravelly, and aggressive, more a growl than words. He takes another step forward and leans forward, his own hands fisting into fists at his side. "Do you work for Hydra?"

 

Felicity watches the live feed of the subject’s room—that is, the tiny 1940’s time capsule SHIELD created and is currently pretending is a room. Technically, Felicity shouldn’t even have access to the feed. If Waller knew Felicity had borrowed their security cameras again, she'd have a fit. But Waller had denied Felicity access to the Subject in the first place despite everything, _everything_ she has given up for this, and Waller damn well knows that.

So, really, what’s a girl to do? If SHIELD really didn’t want her poking around on their servers, they should have better security.

While messing with SHIELD’s servers is entertaining on most days, that’s not the real reason she’d hacked the feed to Oliver Queen’s holding cell. No, the real reason is so she can finally see the man who ruined her childhood, the man whose veins held the only successful solution of the Super Soldier Serum.

Finding the answer to the Super Soldier Serum had consumed Noah Cuttler’s life. It had driven him mad, had led to missed birthdays and science fairs, and even her high school graduation because, “ _Flick, I think this time I’ve got it. This is it, I really feel that this is the one!"_

It never was.

But against all odds, the man—the one who’d ruined her life, whose image had been synonymous with misery and resentment—had been found seventy years later. Frozen in an iceberg in the Atlantic Ocean. Alive.

Felicity traces the image of the man's strong figure with her eyes, nibbling on her lip and clenching her fists. Oliver Queen, Captain America himself, is alive. Alive and, as of just a moment ago, awake.

It was really too bad Noah Cuttler hadn't been able to give up smoking, Felicity thinks to herself, zooming the camera in on Queen’s handsome face. If her father had given up smoking, maybe he might have been alive to see this moment too.

And then—Queen strikes.

 

* * *

  

V. LORD OF THE RINGS

_The First of Many Meetings_

 

The wind tells the Ranger of the dark rider's approach long before he sees his pursuer.

A moment after the change in the breeze whispers of their presence, he feels it in the hoof beats that rumble through the ground, as effective as a horn trumpeting the rider's approach. He pulls his hood up, confident that the cloak of Lothlorien will shield him from unwelcome eyes.

He draws back into the undergrowth of the forest and draws his bow. The feel of the wood and the arrow's fletching set against his lips, ready to shoot, is as comforting as the rustle of the wind in the leaves. This is familiar. This is home, the only fellowship that he needs at his side, that of him and his bow.

He waits. The hooves get closer and closer until they are fully audible on the dirt path, until a trail of dust is thrown up with the horses' violent hooves, heralding the rider's presence. He waits one breath— _two—_

The rider appears, black cloak billowing, swirling in the dirt, around the black steed. He lets his arrow fly. He has been trained by the archers of Rivendell. He does not miss.

Except that, this time, he does.

The black steed, as if sensing the danger to his rider, pulls up short at the last moment, rearing up with a shrill whinny. The arrow zips through the space between the rider’s splayed arms and hits a thick-trunked tree behind the rider with a dull thud.

The Ranger stares, taken aback. He cannot remember the last time he missed.

The horse's unexpected stop not only throws the Ranger. The black rider topples off the steed, its billowing folds of black fabric wrapping around the figure as if it is trying to disappear into its own folds. The black rider lands in a cascade of dark fabric, releasing a terrible shriek that echoes around the trees as it hits the ground.

The Ranger stiffens. Despite the hair-raising scream from the black rider, the sound is not that of a Black Rider of Mordor. No, this rider is something else, despite the dark horse and cloak. A swift glance at the horse’s forehead reveals that, though the horse’s coat is blacker than midnight, there is a spot of white between the eyes in the shape of a star; the Black Riders of Mordor only ever ride steeds that were completely black.

A moan of agony comes from the hunched figure in black. The Ranger, his hunting instincts giving way to his healer instincts, steps forward out of the trees, though he keeps his bow drawn and ready. Just because this is not a Black Rider does not mean that this rider is harmless, even injured as they are.

"Peace," the Ranger says, his voice soft. "I am not going to hurt you."

He speaks in Westron, the most common speech used throughout these lands. The words feel funny on his lips and around his tongue. It has been a long time since he tasted the Westron speech of Men.

A pained groan is the only response he receives. The Ranger grips his bow tighter, his concern for the creature swathed in black tempered by his wariness that an attack may be eminent.

"Peace, stranger," the Ranger says again, taking another wary step toward the huddled mass of black fabric. "I am a healer and can help with your wounds. But first I must know who you are."

The horse snorts and stomps, ever mindful of its master's prone body on the ground at its hooves, agitated and warning. The beast is a beautiful specimen, strong with powerful flanks and a well-muscled back. On its back sits a war saddle of the finest workmanship, a sheathed sword in its scabbard lashed to its side. The rider is a warrior, then.

The shock of the fall seems to have passed, as the fabric stirs and forms itself into a hooded human figure instead of some billowing, boneless creature.

"Sir, what is your name?" the Ranger asks. Perhaps the rider took a blow to the head when he fell.

The hooded figure rises to a sitting position, lifting his head to look at the Ranger. A tense moment settles between the two, broken only by the sounds of the forest and the angry snorts of the black beast.

"Sir?" the hooded figure says, and his voice is pitched too high, is too sweet, to be that of a man's. "Why do you call me sir, stranger? I am no man."

With a clumsy, shaking hand, the hooded figure throws back the black cloth obscuring their face to reveal a golden-haired maiden, blue eyes watery with pain. The woman's response is not in Westron, but in Rohirric, though she clearly understood his previous sallies in Westron.

The Ranger stiffens, surprised. A shieldmaiden of Rohan. He did not expect a woman to travel alone on these dangerous roads; he did not expect Rohirric. It has been many years since he spoke the language of the horsemen of the North East plains.

"Dear lady, you are well met," the Ranger says, responding in like. The words feel clumsy in his mouth, a rougher, throatier version of the Westron tongue. It has been ages since he last spoke in the Rohirric tongue, but his words seem to set the maiden marginally at ease. "Why do you journey so far from home? And with no company?"

The maiden’s clear blue eyes glare back at him. They are a color of blue that the Ranger has not seen in an age, not since he left Rivendell and set off on his journey Eastward.

The maiden grunts, drawing herself up as tall as she can. A sharp intake of breath later, she huddles in on herself. The Ranger starts; he forgot she was injured.

"Do you think me too fragile to travel without companions?” she demands through clenched teeth.

"No, lady," the Ranger replies, a hint of surprise coloring his tone. The shieldmaidens of Rohan are renown for being as fierce as their men, both in battle and in valor. "In these times, even men would do well to travel in company."

"And yet I see no fellowship with you," the lady returns, her gaze burning up at him, a smear of dirt on her otherwise perfectly pale cheek. "What is your name?"

"I am known by many names," the Ranger replies. He relaxes his grip on his bow and points it down, the weapon no longer an imminent threat.

The shieldmaiden’s lips quirk, dissipating her grimace of pain. "One will suffice, sir.”

A frisson of delight rolls down his spine at the sight of her small smile. It has been a long time yet since he has seen the face of a beautiful maid who deigned to smile at him so artlessly. Though she is injured, made weak by her unexpected fall, her smile is gentle and sincere. It is a beautiful smile, one that stirs his blood and his heart. The Ranger cannot help feeling drawn to, like a warm fire in a safely hidden cottage or a memory of ageless halls in a world long forgotten.

"To those of the north I am known as Áleifr," he says, inclining his head to the lady at his feet. "I cannot think of a close approximate in Rohirric, but in the common tongue—”

“Oliver,” she says. She ponders the name for a moment and then her lips curve up into a triumphant smile. She turns the strange syllables over in her mouth, forming her rosebud lips around the vowels of the word. “Oliver.”

Oliver cannot help but return her smile. It feels strange on his lips; it has been an age since his lips have done something as simple as smile.

"Well met, Oliver of the Far North,” the shieldmaiden greets. The smile on her face dims as she adds, “Or, it would be, had this been any other time."

She makes a move as if to stand, then moans and hunches over, her left arm tucked tightly against her stomach. Oliver forces himself to stand still.

"If you'll allow me to approach you, I may be able to help," Oliver says. He puts his bow away, slung over his back. Clearly this shieldmaiden of Rohan means him no harm. He regrets that, in haste of his flight, he had done her harm without meaning to. "As I said before, I am a healer."

"A man of many talents," she says, her voice coy. She waves her concerned mount away, calming him with a soft nickering out of the corner of her mouth, allowing Oliver to come closer.

Kneeling at her side, Oliver sees the sweat on her brow and the shaking of her hands. She is in pain. His stomach churns at the thought that he is the cause.

“Please, do not be troubled. It is only a strained wrist,” she says, gesturing to the arm pressed against her stomach. And then, as if to distract Oliver from his guilt, she says, "My name is Féawyn, daughter of Rhone, and shieldmaiden of Rohan."

“Féawyn,” Oliver turns the sounds over in his head, the beginnings of a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. In Westron, the translation of her name is much the same. “Great joy. _Felicity_.”

Felicity’s answering smile is like dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. Oliver feels warmed by its light.

"Come, Felicity," Oliver says, taking her by the uninjured arm and helping her to stand. "These paths are not safe to linger on. We must ride yet further until we can wind a place where we can camp and tend to your wounds in safety. Can you manage?"

The shieldmaiden stifles a groan but gains her feet gracefully, relatively steady. "Lead on, sir!” Her eyes flash with mirth as she teases, “Though perhaps I should first have your assurance that you won't try and shoot me again."

She points to the arrow sticking out of the trunk. Oliver's cheeks darken into a blush, an expression he did not know he was any longer capable of. He laughs, unexpectedly, and cannot quite say why his heart flutters and settles high in his chest.

“You have my word, Felicity," he says. "And my deepest apologies. I thought you were a Black Rider."

The teasing glint disappears from her eyes replaced instead by a furious, heated look. Oliver’s heart aches at the hollow grief he sees in her eyes.

"I seek the Black Riders," she says, shoulders pulled back and head held proud. "They burned my village and stole our horses. Their master’s magic enthralls my king's mind. He has sent our armies to contend with enemies on our eastern front. I ride to our allies at Helm’s Deep to seek help for my people."

Felicity’s lips tremble and her face has become ghostly pale, but her back is ramrod straight and her shoulders set. A shiver runs down Oliver’s spine, the finger of fate prodding him forward.

“We _are_ well met, Felicity, Shieldmaiden of Rohan,” Oliver murmurs, drawing Felicity forward, off the path and into the shade of the trees. “Allow me to bind your wrist and I will tell you of the news I bring from Gondor.”

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on each AU . . .
> 
> SUPERNATURAL  
> The Queen siblings are hunters and Felicity is a perky waitress in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oliver has been in hell for the last five years before he was resurrected and restored to his body. He’s not possessed or whatever. He’s alllll demon. They did something like that with Dean in season 10, right?
> 
> Additional thoughts: the Lance sisters kicking ass as hunters, Roy falling into the “family business” after Thea saves his life, and Oliver dealing with his growing feelings for a certain perky blonde. 
> 
> HUNGER GAMES  
> Oliver has been entered as the Capitol’s Champion as a twist for the 75th Hunger Games. His father, knowing President Malcolm Merlyn’s underhand ways, forced Oliver to train all growing up to prep him. Felicity is a tech genius from District 6. Digg, champion of the 65th Hunger Games, is her mentor.
> 
> Other thoughts: President Malcolm Merlyn pulling strings behind the scenes; Sarah Lance, champion of the 71st Hunger Games, getting in the mix; and Oliver’s dilemma to either survive or to give up everything for a girl who is probably going to try to kill him at some point.
> 
> STAR WARS  
> Featuring flygirl Felicity Smoak of Corellia, her force sensitive co-pilot Roy Harper, and Oliver, the stray they picked up on Serenno (who happens to also be a Jedi). 
> 
> Serenno is an actual Outer Rim planet from the Star Wars universe, home of Count Dooku. The planet is also notable for its adherence to an aristocratic caste-system and its belief in noblesse oblige—basically a French idiom for, “With great power comes great responsibility.” The idea that Oliver Queen was hiding out on a planet known for its wealth and nobility tickled my imagination.
> 
> Star Wars swears are probably one of my most favorite things in the whole kriffing world. You can find an entire list of them here.
> 
> Additional thoughts: Oliver taking Roy as a Padawan, Thea becoming a rebel princess and a leader of the rebellion, Oliver’s past as Darth al Sahim, the Emperor’s alter ego Darth Sahir, and Felicity’s piloting skills saving the universe.
> 
> MARVEL  
> I loved the idea of crossing my DC babies with Marvel. I was sitting in class (not paying attention to the lecture), when I suddenly imagined the scene at the end of Captain America with Oliver Queen instead of Steve Rogers. Thus, a moodier, darker, and angstier Cap’ was born. 
> 
> Featuring: Felicity Smoak, a rich, billionaire philanthropist with a killer work suit; John Diggle, a man whose temper turns him green; Sarah Lance, a Russian assassin turned agent who can crush a man’s head with her thighs; Roy Harper, an archer with a bad attitude; and Tommy Merlyn, a soldier turned assassin put on ice.
> 
> LORD OF THE RINGS  
> Buckle in for this one, folks. 
> 
> I am a LOTR nerd. I took two courses on Tolkien during my undergrad and I loved every minute of it, particularly the language part. Tolkien was a genius at languages and he populated Middle Earth with languages he created. If you ever get a chance to read-up on Tolkien or study I highly recommend it.
> 
> I made Felicity a shieldmaiden of Rohan because I loved the idea of her charging into battle, long blonde hair flying, taking no prisoners. But “Felicity” isn’t a very Rohirric name, so I played around with it a bit.
> 
> The Rohirric language is based in large part on Old English (the Mercian dialect if you must know). The relationship between Rohirric and Westron (or Common Speech) is similar to the relationship between Old English and Modern English. In keeping with that, the Rohirric name Felicity gives, “Féawyn,” is based off Old English; “féa” meaning “joy” and “-wyn” being a feminine suffix. Translated to Westron, Oliver calls her Felicity.
> 
> Oliver’s story arc is similar to Aragorn’s. He is the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain (the Rangers of the North) and the last surviving heir of the High King of both Arnor and Gondor. He was hidden in Rivendell as a child for his protection and grew up mainly speaking the elvish language Sindarin (the elvish language spoken in the movies). 
> 
> Tolkien created Sindarin with Welsh-like phonology and the language was heavily influenced by Old English, Old Norse, and Icelandic. “Áleifr” is an Old Norse name meaning “ancestor’s descendant”—and if you say it out loud, it sounds like you’re saying “Oliver.”
> 
> Now you know more about fantastical languages than you probably will ever need to know. To quote Maui, “You’re welllll-come!”
> 
> Other thoughts: Roy as a sexy dwarf (á la Aidan Turner in the hobbit), Thea as Oliver’s adopted elvish sister (who totally falls for Roy), and Diggle as the Steward of Gondor.
> 
> —aaaand that’s a wrap! Good job people. I’ll see you back here in three years. Kidding. Not really.


End file.
